


Yuri!!! On Ice freeform

by thepointedarrow



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:46:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29100501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepointedarrow/pseuds/thepointedarrow
Summary: An OC named Andrey is an upcoming Russian skater who meets good old Yuri.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Yuri!!! On Ice freeform

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write about an original male character and his interactions with the infamous Yuri Plisetsky as well as Yakov. I thought the past tie-in to Yakov was a realistic way to justify Andrey being around Yuri. This is writing practice. Of course, I love Otabek as much as the rest of us, but don't feel like I have enough insight into his character to write a first person from him and include Yuri in it. This is short, but I'll definitely continue it if anyone actually ends up reading and/or liking it. So, enjoy (?)

Russians are testy. Perhaps it isn’t even a legitimate cultural phenomenon, more of a social stereotype. Or maybe it really is the constant chill--I still haven’t gotten used to it. It usually only gets up to 74 degrees in July. I live by the small heater in my apartment, especially now that it’s November. 

And per usual, it’s the break room with the fireplace where I can be found, in the half an hour between rink sessions. My skates are by the door, and I take the alone time to sink back into the overly-soft leather couch, stretching my feet towards the fireplace. My program just isn’t going well. I’ve been practicing for weeks, but ever since I was relocated to the Ice Palace, it’s almost like my skills have gone out the window. Under rotated turns. Not enough speed. Stumbling all the time, on things that I’ve had under my belt since I was twelve. It’s embarrassing. Ilya added a quad salchow to the program-- near the end, even, and I still can’t land it. 

Either way. 

Break is almost up, and I cast my gaze away from the fire and back towards the large glass door of the room I occupy. Skaters pass by every once in a while- it’s a Monday, so only real tools are going to be here at 1 pm. A few older guys, all in rental skates, pass by. Some kind of company excursion? Christ. My phone buzzes- it’s Ilya. Time is up, back to practice. I pull myself up from the couch, pulling my gloves back on and shivering at the blast of cool air outside of the break room. As I do, a figure quickly brushes past me. Or rather, two figures. Quite the large, gruff-looking man, with little hair except for an intense mustache. The old friend of my father’s, Yakov Feltsman. Back when I was younger, he and my father had dinner with each other nearly once a week. For a number of years it went on like that, then when I was about ten, my father took me aside and told me to come outside and wave goodbye to Yakov, for what he acted like was the last time. Confused, I did as I was told, stuck on my spot on the sidewalk by the firm hand of my father as I waved at Yakov, who rarely spoke to me.

In the backseat, disinterested face pressed against the window, was a small blonde boy who looked to be as old as me. I’d heard my father speaking to Yakov about him- three gold medals in a row in surrounding region competitions. He was also ten. 

His name was Yuri Plisetsky. 

All of this managed to rush through my head in the few seconds it took the pair to pass by me. Grabbing my skates, I raise my hand as if hailing a cab. 

“Yakov?”

He turns, taking a minute to study my face and walking forward incredulously. 

“Andr-Andrusha?” I nod, grinning and shaking his hand. 

“I’m home, visiting, training as well.”

It was at this that the boy who’d been walking with Yakov turned around to look at me, sneering. That mention of ‘training’ didn’t seem to sit well with him.

“Yakov, I need to start. Who is _he?_ ”

Yakov waved Yuri off, saying something gruff under his breath that sent him storming off towards the ice rink, ripping the hair tie from his ponytail and shaking out his hair ferociously as he went. Yakov turns back to me, smiling faintly. 

“How’ve you been, Andrushya? Your father? It’s been a good few years since I’ve seen you and watched you skate.”

“Oh, I’ve been alright. I’ve trained with Ilya Nikitina since you last saw me, and she wanted a change of pace so that I could make it to Worlds. So I’m here. My father is alright. Busy with my nephew.”

He nods, stoically, and turns to face the large plexiglass viewing wall of the ice.

“Indeed, that’s good to hear. I haven’t left St. Petersburg since I moved here to coach Yuri.”

“Is he doing well?” I fidget with the laces of my skates.

“Well as ever, if you’d call it that. The Russian Nationals are approaching, as I’m sure you know-?”

“I certainly do. I’ll have to get my quad salchow in time.”

He scoffs, nods. “If you ever catch Yuri having a good day, ask him how to land one.” And like that, he’s gone, through the swinging doors towards the ice. My phone buzzes again. Illya has never been one to confront me about anything, including when I’m late. I hurry out in the same direction to meet her in the middle of the rink, arms crossed.

“You’re late, Andrey.”

“Andrey, now is it?” 

“Only when I’m annoyed. Get out there- you’re a year older than Plisetsky. He shouldn’t be doing faster crossovers than you.”

“But- he’s been training since he was-”

“Go.”

I do, angrily working my arms a little higher than necessary to gain speed away from Ilya. She’s right aggravating, sometimes. 

_Of course the goddam Russian Fairy is better than me. As if I didn’t know that already._

The rink here is Olympic size, so I rarely pass Yuri as I work. Edge drills, constantly. The new blades on my skates trip me up on backwards crossovers, which ironically enough is a large element of my free program. Fast backward crossovers, all the time. As I’m stumbling through them, starting to get in my element, Yuri flies by me, eyes glinting ferociously under the harsh light. 

“Bend your knees more, suka. You look like a wooden plank.” 

That fucker. Worst part is, he’s right. I’m much faster and smoother once I make a point to bend my knees. By the time I round a corner and make my way back to Ilya, she’s warmed up once again and starts going over the training roster for the afternoon. Consistent jump work- as I expected. As soon as I get into it, any notice of Yuri, Yakov, or even Ilya flies out the window as I focus on the motions. Clean landing. Correct edge. One edge of the rink is a glass wall facing outside, and I watch as time’s passage reflects itself in the pattern of the sun. I hadn’t realized how long we’d been working until Ilya has to catch up to me, shaking my shoulders. 

“Didn’t you hear me? Start cooling down. You’ve done much better than I ever thought you would on your first day back.” She squeezes my shoulder affectionately, leaving me be. I stick my hands in my pockets and take the time to glide around, wiping sweat off my forehead. Post-workout isn’t exactly my time to shine, cosmetics-wise. Yakov is scolding Yuri over something, and for all of my self proclaimed dignity, I can’t help but move just a bit closer so I can overhear what’s going on.

“You aren’t listening to me, Yura. No quads in your second half, for now. That’s final.” 

“Yeh. Vhat-ever. I can do them, you just have to let me!”

Feisty. 

Yakov huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose, but the younger skater doesn’t back down; instead starting a fast backward movement before launching into what looks to be a perfect quad salchow, before leaving the rink and unlacing his skates. 

“You see, old man? It’s only up from here.”

Perhaps the interviews were right, that he does perform better when he’s angry. I make my way off in the same direction. 

The lobby is quiet- staff’s gone home and I say my goodbyes to Ilya, taking my time to dry my skate blades while hoping that Yuri doesn’t notice me. I suppose he’s waiting for a ride, because he’s holding a full middle split while typing furiously on his phone. 

“That was, ah- a nice salchow.”

He looks up, rolling his eyes before going back to his phone. 

“Of course it was. I’ve-well. I could show you how to land one, sometime, suka.” 

I lean back, rummaging in my bag for my car keys.

“Why include an offer and an insult in the same sentence?”

“Instinct. One has to keep their guard up around competition. Not that you’re threatening me.” 

It’s the most I’ve heard him say, ever, especially to me.

“Fair. Well, I need that lesson for the program I’m working on, so- will you be here tomorrow?”

“I’m usually here five, six days-a week. No one gets to the Grand Prix twice otherwise.” 

“Yeh, I get it. You won the Juniors twice.” 

“Asshole.”

Then we’re back to silence, and I take time to stretch my calves a bit. I’ve got nowhere to be. Yuri types away, and I hear the approach of a car outside. There’s the beep of an old car horn, and he starts. 

“My grandfather’s here.” 

Takes himself out of the split, pulls his hood over his head, effectively diminishing any sort of identity, and heads for the door.

“Goodnight, Yuri.”

He leaves, without saying anything in return. 


End file.
